


Staying Straight, Flying Right

by Edwardina



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Belts, Community: blindfold_spn, Corporal Punishment, Demonic Possession, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Manipulation, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-20
Updated: 2010-07-20
Packaged: 2018-02-17 02:37:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2293844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Edwardina/pseuds/Edwardina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>prompt: The only way Brady agrees to get off of drugs is if Sam becomes his Dom. Sam, though reluctant, agrees. Brady proceeds to use that as a means to get Sam to embrace hurting people -- and especially him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Staying Straight, Flying Right

**Author's Note:**

> Written for blindfold_spn and originally posted [here](http://community.livejournal.com/blindfold_spn/2172.html?thread=2516092#t2516092).
> 
> This absolutely got away from me and became this long and serious and unkinky thing. It doesn't even really fill the point of the prompt, only shows shades of it. But it really wrote itself and all I can do is apologize. I really like writing toppy!Sam.

Sam tried everything he could think of, but it was so frustrating. Brady's friends ( _his_ friends) had all given up.

Sam got it. He really did. Even though they'd all gone through freshman year together, it was just too much work for most people to attend classes, do homework, have a handful of part-time jobs to help pay for school, and pound on a druggie's dorm room door every day to see if he would yell profanities at them or if he was willing to go to class with them.

His resources were so low, there was no way he could do anything but try to get Brady in to see the school psychologist. His own lone psych credit wasn't enough to even scratch the surface of the problems Sam could see his friend succumbing to. He needed an intervention way more effective than anything Sam could give him. 

But somehow, for some reason, the more people like Trevor and Zach who said, "It's not worth it, man. Just let him go. Let him drop out," the harder Sam pounded on Brady's dorm room every day. The harder he yelled in Brady's zonked-out face. Maybe it was his temper, the same one that made it impossible for him to even be in the same car with his father anymore. Or maybe he was just too accustomed to trying to help people. Facing monsters. Maybe it was fear. Maybe if Brady, of all people, could slip and fuck up his life and become a drug addict, maybe Sam could, too.

No. He wasn't going to let it happen. Not to him, not to Brady. He didn't have family the way most of these kids did; he couldn't go home over breaks. He had no home to go to, and he was sure Dean would be adamantly against coming to see him, so he never asked, never tried. His friends were the closest thing he had to family out here. Brady was a good guy. Sam _knew_ it. He was a clean-cut blond kid from northern California who didn't even cuss, except to say things were "hella good." When his mother had heard Sam was staying at school for Thanksgiving their freshman year, she'd sent Brady back a day early with a huge care package of leftovers and home-made cookies that Sam had cherished for as long as he could make it last. He and Sam both had older brothers, Brady's at Stanford in post-grad. Sam told him that his was in the Marines.

Every day for two months after both Thanksgiving and Christmas breaks, Sam set his mouth in a line, went to Brady's dorm, and knocked on the door until either he or his frazzled roommate, who only slept there half the time out of increasing distaste for Brady's habits and company, answered. Sometimes Brady was passed out with a half-naked girl in his bed with him and Sam would try and wake him up, gauge how high he was, and say to the girl, "I'm very sorry, but Brady has econ in twenty minutes. You should probably go."

Or he would at least let Brady know he was pissed, that someone expected something from him and wasn't going to go away. Sometimes Brady seemed malleable, almost himself, and got dressed in the preppy, expensive clothes his parents bought for him that Sam tried not to be jealous of and asked, "What was I supposed to read, again?" But sometimes, Brady would punch at him with an amazing anger and strength and growl, "Fuck off, Sam. What the fuck do you care, huh?" And shove him out the door again.

On Valentine's Day their sophomore year, Brady didn't show at the party Zach and Becky threw, but his current girlfriend did, and she spent most of the time crying on the couch into Becky's shoulder, mascara running down her cheeks. "I don't know what I did," she kept sobbing. "One second he was so sweet to me, you know? Then the next he'd --" 

Apparently it was too awful for her to mention.

That was the last straw.

With no word to anyone, Sam excused himself from the party and made the trip to Brady's dorm room, not sure whether he was going to break the guy's nose or say, _It's over, Brady. I am done. I am done watching out for you and making you go to class and sticking up for you and trying to help you pass. You can clean up your own messes and rot in Hell._

His tried to keep his fist from going through the door when he knocked.

Somewhere within, Brady coughed, then said, "Go. Away."

Sam swung back and forth for a hot few seconds, turning to stalk away, then turning back, something he hadn't felt since the night he left for Stanford boiling in his veins. Never mind his fist. He wound up kicking in the door.

It flew open, and a few people down the hall jumped at the noise of it, but Sam ignored them and stalked into Brady's room, where he was sitting cross-legged on his bed, in his underwear and a local bar t-shirt, clutching a pillow and looking blotchy, greasy, and -- kind of high. There was a darkness in his eyes, like they were just a wasteland, and they were ringed with red and purple, like maybe Brady hadn't actually slept in a couple of days.

"What the fuck, Sam," he said hollowly, but he didn't seem to be surprised. Maybe he was too high to register the fact that Sam had kicked in the door, not just opened it uninvited.

"Are you high?" Sam demanded, in all seriousness.

"No," said Brady.

"You lying to me?"

"Fuck," muttered Brady.

"Allison showed up at Becky's, crying her eyes out," Sam said, feeling viciously unforgiving about the fact.

"What the fuck does that bitch have to be upset about?" Brady threw his pillow at the nearby wall.

"What did you do to her?"

"What did I do to her? Why am I always the bad guy? Always the fucking bad guy with you people. What, did she tell you I have _problems_? She's the fucking problem, giving you ideas like that. You know she sells her Adderall? You can't believe a word that comes out of that bitch's lying ass. And she's the one who dumped me." It was just careless rambling until then -- then he got loud. " _She_ dumped _me_!"

"Okay!" Sam boomed, and slammed the door shut again. The lock had broken off the wall, so he grabbed Brady's desk chair and jammed it up under the doorknob. "Enough. I'm sorry she dumped you, man."

Brady was rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands. "I think I loved her."

Sam wasn't so sure. He'd only been seeing her for a couple of weeks, that he knew of, and all they did was party and wind up in bed together.

"I'm sorry," was what he said, and decided to take a gentler tack. "I'm gonna help you get through this, okay?"

After a moment of quiet, Brady said, "Yeah. Okay. You're a good friend to me, Sammy."

"Just Sam," said Sam automatically.

"Sam," echoed Brady, then he broke down crying. "I need help, Sam."

Sam wasn't sure what to do. Dudes crying wasn't his forte, and he didn't want Brady to get defensive about it, get pissed off and kick him out as fast as he'd come to heel just then. But on instinct, he moved to sit next to Brady and got an arm around his shoulders, feeling them shake at his touch. He said patiently, "I know. I know, man. It's hard. Don't worry. I'm gonna help you out, okay?"

Brady cried for a little while, the hitches in his lungs sounding painful to Sam, like he was trying his best not to lose it in front of Sam, but couldn't help it, couldn't control it. Sam just kept an arm around his shoulders and tried to formulate a plan, wondering if he could get Brady to consent to counseling or something, wondering if Brady was enough of a drug addict that he was going to go through withdrawal or something else scarier than Sam was prepared to cope with.

"Here's what we're gonna do," he finally said, trying to sound confident. "We're gonna get you into the shower. You'll feel better when you're clean. Same goes for all your stuff. We'll find a laundromat, get it cleaned up, throw away all the stuff that's dragging you down. The pills, okay, and whatever else you've been doing. You'll feel better when your environment is clean. Seriously, I read that somewhere," he insisted, as Brady snorted with a helpless laugh. "Then you'll get some sleep, okay? We'll wake up tomorrow, get some coffee and eat something that isn't ramen or pizza or Frosted Flakes, and we'll get you back on track."

"You gonna be my life coach?" asked Brady, with a tone suggesting he was joking, but also actually wondering.

"Yeah, that's me," said Sam. "Hit the shower."

Brady obeyed.

Employing skills he hadn't used in years, Sam searched Brady's room -- even his roommate's comparatively immaculate side. He found a few prescription bottles, half with Allison's name on them, and pocketed them all. He wasn't really worried about the weed he found in Brady's dresser drawers but he took that too. It was the small packet of white powder he found in the pocket of the khakis on the floor that worried him the most. Luckily, that was all he found, even though he wondered if there might be more.

By the time Brady was out of the shower, wrapped in a towel and looking (and smelling) much better for the scrubbing, Sam had pulled his bedsheets off and filled his hamper with the dirty clothes lying around.

"You work fast," he said, scratching his head and looking bewildered at the follow-through.

"Yep, I do. Here, I found these in your dresser. They smell clean," said Sam, throwing him a t-shirt and shorts.

"You sniffed my clothes?" Brady asked, but he didn't seem offended so much as interested.

"Well... not all of them..."

Brady was quiet, just holding the clothes in his hands and staring down at them, water trickling down his chest and soaking into the towel around his hips. Then, as if in slow-motion, he looked at Sam, and Sam felt a shudder of discomfort, because it was kind of intimate. The most intimate he'd been with anyone at Stanford so far, including the girl he'd lost his virginity to his first month there and the girl he'd dated for three months last spring. He felt like he was seeing Brady truly naked or something, and Brady was looking back at him and finding him less than clothed, too, sitting there on Brady's bare, thin dorm mattress with the basket of laundry.

"Hey, Sam?" Brady asked, voice soft and catchy in his throat. "You really think you can help me stay straight? You know. Fly right, I mean."

Sam rubbed his own hands together, still feeling a prickling heat he couldn't explain. "You have to let me," he finally said. "You have to want to fly right, Brady. You have to let me help you, or all we're doing is wasting time."

"You'll tell me what to do?" Brady pressed.

"If that's what it takes," Sam said. He'd been trying to do that since Thanksgiving break, but Brady hadn't been listening then.

Brady shook his head. He looked bowled over, like he couldn't catch the thought and hang onto it. Like it bewildered him totally breathless. "Really? You would _do_ that for me, Sam?"

"Only if you listen."

"Sam," Brady said, breathing hard and looking at the clothes like they didn't make any sense to him all of a sudden. "I'll do anything you say. Anything. For as long as you want. Okay?"

"O... okay," Sam managed, a shock of odd feeling going through him. He had no idea what it was. It was the weight of responsibility, for one. And self-doubt. And determination. And the feeling of someone treating him like a capable adult, for once. He felt unequipped, somehow, like he had power in his hands, but had no idea what to do with it, what he should do with it. What was right for Brady. He sat up straighter on the bed. "For starters, no more drugs. You're quitting. Right now."

"No more drugs," Brady agreed.

"Promise me."

"Promise."

It was unacceptable. "No," said Sam, more firmly. "You have to _promise_ me. No. More. You break your promise, and -- I'm sorry. I don't care. I'll be gone. You'll be on your own."

Brady stared at him for a moment, then said, "I promise."

"What do you promise?" Sam repeated. There was no way Brady was getting out of this one.

"I promise to quit. Drugs. All of them." Brady's eyes seemed like they were burning. They were intense. He went on, "If you promise to stay with me. Doing this."

"Doing what?"

"This. Telling me exactly what to do." Brady shook his head, dropped the t-shirt and didn't seem to notice or care because he was wringing the pair of shorts in his fists. "I know it's... pathetic. But I don't trust myself, Sam. I don't trust anyone. But I trust you. I don't know what to do sometimes. But I know you're right. And your opinion is -- so fucking important to me. I don't know. I just... need your help, and I'll do anything, Sam. I can't keep fucking chicks and getting blitzed, I... need something else. I need it really bad, but I don't know what it is. I need... I just need help."

That weird feeling inside Sam was swelling, half smothering him uncomfortably and half just what he wanted to hear.

"Well, I'll help you," he said stoutly.

Looking like he didn't know what to say after all that, Brady stared down at the floor, then ducked to get his t-shirt. Sam watched him there on his knees, pulling it on over his damp skin. He looked away politely when Brady dropped the towel in favor of the shorts Sam had pulled out for him.

"Laundromat?" he asked, and Sam nodded.

They found one of the handful near campus, and since it was Valentine's Day, it wasn't too crowded. Brady followed Sam but looked sort of lost, and Sam wound up leading him through the routine that he'd known all his life.

"You've never been to a laundromat?" Sam asked. "How does your laundry get done?"

"I pay my roommate to do it," said Brady unabashedly.

"That stops too," Sam said decidedly.

"Really? Is that on par with coke?"

"No. You should just do it yourself," said Sam, not appreciating the mention of what he had in his pocket currently. "It's productive. You can study or write papers or something while you're waiting. It gives you time to focus on the reason you're here."

"And what reason is that?"

Sam slammed the door on the washer shut loudly. "Um, I don't know, to better yourself and your mind? To get a college degree so you can get a good job and lead a good life?"

"Sam. I don't have to worry about that stuff," said Brady, in a tone a little bit too much like he thought Sam was an idiot for having concerns like that. "I could flunk out, drop out, and my dad would still get me a job at any number of the companies he deals with. I could turn up stoned every damn day and no one would say shit. Especially at a pharmaceuticals company --"

He was cut off abruptly by Sam's hand around his bicep.

"Shut up," Sam said through his teeth. "First off, you mention getting stoned again and I'm walking out of here. Second, you don't know that, any of that. How do you know your dad won't take one look at you and bounce your ass out onto the streets so you can fend for yourself and work washing dishes and live in a rathole apartment, if you're _lucky_. Even if you did get a good job you don't deserve, you wouldn't last a week if you were on drugs. You can't even get to your classes unless I drag you there."

Brady was breathing hard; Sam could feel the puffs of hot breath on his fingers as they dug into Brady's biceps. For a second, Sam wasn't sure if Brady was going to shove at him, curse at him and fuck off. But Brady just giggled, a moronic noise that docked a whole extra chunk of Sam's patience.

"You're high," he stated simply.

"Well, yeah," Brady snorted, and laughed as Sam grabbed him, pulled him toward the tiny bathroom near the entrance to the place. "Hey! We're not supposed to leave our laundry unattended, Sammy, c'mon. There's a sign! You're ignoring the sign!"

There was a guy in the men's room, standing at a sink smoking, and the stench of weed burned Sam's eyes.

"Right on, brother," Brady announced, raising a fist, but the guy looked nervous and backed out as Sam threw Brady up against a somewhat grimy wall next to a single urinal and grabbed at the collar of his t-shirt, so tight that it would rip the shirt if Brady tried to get away. But he didn't.

"What is wrong with you? You beg me for help, crying like a girl, then you tell me you don't give a shit about your future? I don't get it. If you're not serious, you better let me know now."

Brady just stared at him, then his eyes dropped low and his chin tilted, as if he was trying to see Sam's fist at his throat.

"I'm serious. Jesus, Sammy. I can't just magically not be high. It doesn't work that way."

Sam could feel his nostrils flaring with frustration.

"Go ahead," Brady sighed, rolling his eyes. "Give up on me. Everyone else does."

"You know I don't want to. But this is why everyone else gives up on you, Brady. This is why Allison was bawling at Becky's party. You're yourself one minute and a complete asshole the next. Every day! Every day I've been slapping your face trying to wake you up and paying for coffee just so girls will leave you alone with me, so I can get you up out of bed and into class. Every day I try and help you. I'm the last friend you've got, and even if you don't care about your future... I do. Because you've had everything handed to you and I have nothing. Seeing you throw it away makes me --"

 _Sick_ , Sam wanted to say. _Pissed. Beyond fucking angry._

But instead, he just knocked Brady's head against the bathroom wall. It wasn't not a hard knock, but was still real, as if Brady was an amnesiac in a cartoon and a knock on the head would cure him instantly. Brady flinched, eyes squeezing shut, then seemed to sag a little.

"Sorry, Sammy. Do it. One more time," he said, and Sam couldn't help it. He jerked his fist and watched Brady's head crack lightly against the wall, watched Brady wince and heard him hiss through his teeth. Maybe this was what Brady needed in order to get the message, he thought, someone to physically kick his ass.

"Sam," he corrected lowly.

"Okay, okay. Jeez."

"Brady," Sam said expectantly, threateningly.

"Yes, Sam," Brady responded, and it was like a magic word, or something. Sam let him go, feeling right, feeling righteous. He went to the trash can and emptied the drugs out of his pockets bottle by bottle and packet by packet, and Brady said nothing, just watched without protest.

Brady's laundry was still tumbling when they exited again, and Brady sat silently in the plastic chair beside him for the next two hours, following directions to the letter when Sam told him what to do. They made it back to Brady's dorm again with clean clothes and sheets, and Sam helped him put them away and make up his bed again. Brady looked markedly more sober and exhausted, and it was like seeing his old self again when he hugged Sam abruptly. It was a bro-hug, but it just felt like something had changed.

"Colin's at Trisha's," Brady said quietly. "You can sleep on his side of the room if you want. And we can do that coffee thing in the morning."

"Cool," said Sam.

It was the first of many, many nights Sam spent there over the next couple of months. For a few days, Brady seemed to do well, although he was sullen sometimes, seemed depressed. Sam would grab him by the back of the neck like he would a dog that was going astray and pull him back, say _Hey. You with me? Flying right? I got your back._ Sometimes Brady would well up, and sometimes he'd look away and nod resentfully. It was a start. Mostly, they got along cooperatively. They would go to classes together, meet between them, do their papers then watch all the _Star Wars_ movies in a long stretch while eating thai food and arguing Jedi logistics. Brady sometimes looked to Sam, wondering if he should shower or wear this shirt or that, and Sam was happy to decide for him, if it helped.

Sometimes, if Brady was in too good a mood or smelled like he'd just been to a party or something, Sam got suspicious.

"What, you wanna search me? Go ahead," Brady would bitch, and Sam would, feeling increasingly like someone's strict dad but so determined that he dismissed the notion of just letting it go and trusting Brady totally.

He never found anything until the day he found a carton of cigarettes in Brady's back pocket. It surprised him. Brady smelled like smoke sometimes, but people smoked around here. He held it up expectantly, and Brady shrugged.

"When did you take up smoking?" Sam demanded.

"Dunno. Couple weeks ago."

"You promised me. No drugs."

"Come on! Cigarettes are not drugs!"

"You know this isn't cool with me."

Brady huffed. "Oh, here we go. You can't let me have one thing, Sam?"

"Find something else!" exclaimed Sam. "Not this shit!"

"Do you believe that 'gateway drug' bullshit?" Brady fired back.

"That's not the point. If you're smoking behind my back, what else are you doing behind my back? I thought you trusted me! I thought I could trust you! I thought you wanted to do whatever I told you to do. I thought you said you'd stop everything. _Everything._ "

"Sam," grumbled Brady. "Jesus. Fine. I'll throw them away, okay?"

"That's a start," said Sam, earning a flicker of a glare from his friend. Frustration, which had been receding by the day, skyrocketed in him again. Brady was his best friend, but not just that. He depended on him. And Sam hadn't done a good enough job. It was his own fault, really. He turned the carton back over to Brady and said, "Flush 'em. One by one."

"You're wasting them. And water," Brady shot at him.

"I care more about you than about a carton of cigarettes and over-flushing a toilet, idiot," Sam retorted, and grabbed Brady by the collar to lead him to the bathroom. "Tell me you know that."

A sigh. "Yeah."

"Then flush 'em."

Brady did, and it took ten minutes, one by one. Sam held his collar the whole time, jerking at it impatiently when Brady paused and fiddled with the cigarettes as if they were hard to let go of, as if they mattered to him. It was incomprehensible to Sam. By the last one, Brady looked defeated and near tears, but he flicked it into the bowl anyway and leaned forward to flush.

"Good," Sam told him.

They just stood there, and Brady stared down at the toilet for a long minute before saying, "Sam. Do you really care?"

"Take a wild guess," Sam responded dryly. He'd all but moved into Brady's room just to keep an eye on him all the time. He saw more of Brady than he'd seen of anyone since he practically lived in Dean's pocket.

"I just..."

Sam waited expectantly for Brady to get out with whatever excuse he had.

Finally, Brady said, "You should punish me, then."

"Should I?" asked Sam. He didn't feel beyond it, quite frankly. He probably could've rivaled his dad, right then, with how bad he wanted to get control of Brady, of _everything_. Even as it shamed him, he couldn't swallow it down, and he didn't think he fucking ought to, either. He didn't take promises lightly.

"Yes," whispered Brady. "If you care so fucking much. I don't even think you give a shit."

It was seeing Allison sob all over again. A switch flipped. Something broke.

"I'm giving you one chance to take that back before I punish you. I'm serious." Sam's voice was starting to shake, and he didn't even know where the rage was coming from, but it was pouring out of him. "I'm fucking serious. Now's your out. Take it or you're gonna regret it."

"Whatever," Brady muttered.

Sam hauled him out of the bathroom so fast and hard that Brady's shoulder slammed into the door frame, and though he shouted out, indignant and in pain, it was too late for him now.

"You think I'm just fucking around with you, here?" Sam demanded, throwing Brady face-down over the bed. That wasn't enough. He shoved at the back of Brady's head, mashing his face into the mattress and making it bounce off it like it had bounced off the wall in the laundromat bathroom. "This is not a game, Brady."

"So what are you gonna do, spank me? Puh-lease," Brady scoffed, and how anyone could scoff with his face being pushed into a mattress and still get away with it, Sam didn't know. He grabbed at the back of Brady's slick blond hair and gave it a threatening yank, not near as hard as he _wanted_ to, and oh, God, he wanted to, wanted to make Brady _feel_ it. "Sam, don't," Brady immediately whimpered.

"Too late. You missed your chance."

Sam threw Brady's head back against the mattress, then went, somehow knowing what to do, for one of the belts Brady had hanging on a rack in his closet.

"Please, Sam," Brady tried again. "What the fuck --"

"Shut up, unless you're gonna tell me how sorry you are. That's all I wanna hear out of you, Brady."

It didn't even take unfastening the cargo shorts Brady was wearing to get them down his hips.

"Oh, Jesus. I'm sorry, okay! I'm sorry!" Brady babbled insistently, but Sam gave him a whip anyway, a sharp snap of leather against the bare backs of his thighs. He saw Brady clutch at the bedding, saw his thighs flex with the reverb of pain, and heard him make a noise, something incoherent and pained.

"I _told_ you not to," Sam said, and leveled the belt at Brady's ass, getting it good even through the pathetic layer of Abercrombie  & Fitch boxers.

"Let me suck your dick," Brady whimpered out of nowhere, catching Sam off-guard. He ducked his head in shame, but it didn't stop him. "Jesus, Sam."

"You can't get out of this like that," Sam said, almost laughing, he was so beyond shocked. What did Brady think, that he was -- liking this? Molesting him? Gay, 'cause he'd pantsed him and was taking the betrayal he felt out on his ass? He planted a hand on Brady's back and spanked him angrily with the belt, the bite of leather satisfying in how it made Brady scream in the back of his throat.

"I don't want to. I don't want to. I want to be punished. I just wanna show you... how sorry I am," Brady said, tears running down his face. "You don't know h-how it makes me feel when you do this."

"Scared?" Sam asked pointedly.

But Brady sobbed into his blanket, full-out sobbed, shoulders shaking in that familiar way under Sam's weight. "S-so... so -- so turned on. Jesus Christ. I'm sorry, Sam."

Now Sam was totally taken aback. "What?" he managed to whisper.

"I'm not a fag or anything, I swear, I just -- whenever you -- grab me or... tell me what to do, I know you're in control, you're totally in control, and I wanna just suck your cock so bad. I wouldn't ever do it unless you said I could, I promise. But you're fucking _spanking_ my _ass_ with a belt -- I wanna be your little bitch so bad. All I can think about is getting your dick down my throat and showing you how fucking good you make it feel, Sam..."

For a minute, Sam couldn't move, and Brady was shamefully silent other than his whimpers for breath and shaking on the mattress. It was too much to process, what Brady was confessing to him, and what they were doing. What Sam was actually doing right then. The most confusing thing was that he didn't know immediately whether or not he liked hearing that. Well -- the thing was, he did. And he didn't like that he did. And he was definitely not... that way, either. He'd never wondered, anyway, or tried it out like some people in college did. God, he liked the sight of two girls making out too much to possibly be gay, he thought desperately, although he also would've denied that he liked it to, well, anyone who got the idea he did.

"Not right now," he finally managed to say. "You're in trouble right now. You're being punished right now."

"Then God, punish me, please, Sam," Brady begged. "Do whatever you want."

"Apologize to me," Sam commanded, giving in to the frustration that was still roiling under the confusion. "Every time the belt hits you, tell me how fucking sorry you are and how good you're gonna be from now on."

He raised the belt intently, then hesitated, unsure if this was really going to help.

"Please let me apologize. Please. Make my ass so red I'll never touch a cigarette again," Brady whispered, the exact words Sam needed to hear.

He brought the belt down so hard that Brady screamed in his throat, and he moaned, too, and blood rushed into his dick because it felt so good.

Maybe. Maybe he would let Brady show him how sorry he was after all.


End file.
